Slow Birdsby Ian Watson

Ian Watson, a graduate of Oxford University, lives with his wife anddaughter in North Hamptonshire, Great Britain. He has taught in Japanand Tanzania. His first science fiction novel, The Embedding, won theFrench Prix Apollo and was runner-up for the John W. CampbellMemorial Award; his second novel in the field, The Jonah Kit, won theBritish Science Fiction Association Award. He is also the author of The Martian Inca, Alien Embassay, Miracle Visitors, God's World, andChekhov's Journey. His most recent novel, The Book of the River, the firstvolume of a triology in progress, was serialized in The Magazine ofFantasy and Science Fiction. He is a member of the Campaign forNuclear Disarmament and of the growing British organization BAND(Book Action for Nuclear Disarmament).

Ian Watson is the British regional director of the Science FictionWriters of America and the European editor of the SFWA Bulletin.

Slow Birds was nominated for the 1983 Nebula for best novelette.

It was Mayday, and the skate-sailing festival that year was being held atTuckerton.

By late morning, after the umpires had been out on the glass plainsetting red flags around the circuit, cumulous clouds began to fill apreviously blue sky, promising ideal conditions for the afternoon's sport.No rain; so that the glass wouldn't be an inch deep in water as last year atAtherton. No dazzling glare to blind the spectators, as the year before thatat Buckby. And a breeze verging on brisk without ever becoming fierce:perfect to speed the competitors' sails along without lifting people off theirfeet and tumbling them, as four years previously at Edgewood when acouple of broken ankles and numerous bruises had been sustained.

After the contest there would be a pig roast; or rather the succulentfruits thereof, for the pig had been turning slowly on its spit these pastthirty-six hours. And there would be kegs of Old Codger Ale to be cracked.But right now Jason Babbidge's mind was mainly occupied with checking

out his glass-skates and his fine crocus-yellow hand-sail.

As high as a tall man, and of best old silk, only patched in a couple ofplaces, the sail's fore-spar of flexible ash was bent into a bow belly by astrong hemp cord. Jason plucked this thoughtfully like a harpist, testingthe tension. Already a fair number of racers were out on the glass, showingoff their paces to applause. Tuckerton folk mostly, they were—acting as ifthey owned the glass hereabouts and knew it more intimately than anyvisitors could. Not that it was in any way different from the same glassover Atherton way.

Jason's younger brother Daniel whistled appreciatively as a Tuckertonman carrying purple silk executed perfect circles at speed, his sailshivering as he tacked.

"Just look at him, Jay!"

"What, Bob Marchant? He took a pratfall last year. Where's the use inworking up a sweat before the whistle blows?"

By now a couple of sisters from Buckby were out too with matchingblack sails, skating figure-eights around each other, risking collision by ahair's breadth.

"Go on, Jay," urged young Daniel. "Show "em."

Contestants from the other villages were starting to flood on to the glassas well, but Jason noticed how Max Tarnover was standing not so faraway, merely observing these antics with a wise smile. Master Tarnover ofTuckerton, last year's victor at Atherton despite the drenching spray. . . .Taking his cue from this, and going one better, Jason ignored events onthe glass and surveyed the crowds instead.

He noticed Uncle John Babbidge chatting intently to an Edgewood manover where the silver band was playing; which was hardly the quietestplace to talk, so perhaps they were doing business. Meanwhile on thegreen beyond the band the children of five villages buzzed like flies fromhoop-la to skittles to bran tub, to apples in buckets of water. And thosegrownups who weren't intent on the band or the practice runs or onsomething else, such as gossip, besieged the craft and produce stalls.There must be going on for a thousand people at the festival, and thevillage beyond looked deserted. Rugs and benches and half-barrels hadeven been set out near the edge of the glass for the old folk of Tuckerton.

As the band lowered their instruments for a breather after finishing TheFloral Dance, a bleat of panic cut across the chatter of many voices. Afarmer had just vaulted into a tiny sheep-pen where a lamb almost as

large as its shorn, protesting dam was ducking beneath her to suckle andhide. Laughing, the farmer hauled it out and hoisted it by its neck andback legs to guess its weight, and maybe win a prize.

And now Jason's mother was threading her way through the crowd,chewing the remnants of a pasty.

"Best of luck, son!" She grinned.

"I've told you, Mum," protested Jason. "It's bad luck to say 'good luck'."

"Oh, luck yourself! What's luck, anyway?" She prodded her Adam'sapple as if to press the last piece of meat and potatoes on its way down,though really she was indicating that her throat was bare of any charm oramulet.

"I suppose I'd better make a move." Kicking off his sandals, Jason sat tolace up his skates. With a helping hand from Daniel he rose and stoodknock-kneed, blades cutting into the turf while the boy hoisted the sailsacross his shoulders. Jason gripped the leather straps on the bowstringand the spine-spar.

"Okay." He waggled the sail this way and that. "Let's go, then. I won'tblow away."

But just as he was about to proceed down on to the glass, out upon theglass less than a hundred yards away a slow bird appeared.

It materialized directly in front of one of the Buckby sisters. Unable toveer, she had no choice but to throw herself backwards. Crying out infrustration, and perhaps hurt by her fall, she skidded underneath the slowbird, sledging supine upon her now snapped and crumpled sail.

They were called slow birds because they flew through the air—at thestately pace of three feet per minute.

They looked a little like birds, too, though only a little. Their tubularmetal bodies were rounded at the head and tapering to a finned point atthe tail, with two stubby wings midway. Yet these wings could hardly haveanything to do with suspending their bulk in the air; the girth of a birdwas that of a horse, and its length twice that of a man lying full length.Perhaps those wings controlled orientation or trim.

In color they were a silvery grey; though this was only the color of theirouter skin, made of a soft metal like lead. Quarter of an inch beneath thiscoating their inner skins were black and stiff as steel. The noses of thebirds were all scored with at least a few scrape marks due to encounters

with obstacles down the years; slow birds always kept the same heightabove ground—underbelly level with a man's shoulders—and they wouldbank to avoid substantial buildings or mature trees, but any frailerobstructions they would push on through. Hence the individual patterns ofscratches. However, a far easier way of telling them apart was by thegraffiti carved on so many of their flanks; initials entwined in hearts,dates, place names, fragments of messages. These amply confirmed howvery many slow birds there must be in all—something of which peoplecould not otherwise have been totally convinced. For no one could keeptrack of a single slow bird. After each one had appeared—over hill, downdale, in the middle of a pasture or half way along a village street—it wouldfly onward slowly for any length of time between an hour and a day,covering any distance between a few score yards and a full mile. Andvanish again. To reappear somewhere else unpredictably: far away or closeby, maybe long afterwards or maybe soon.

Usually a bird would vanish, to reappear again.

Not always, though. Half a dozen times a year, within the confines ofthis particular island country, a slow bird would reach its journey's end.

It would destroy itself, and all the terrain around it for a radius of twoand a half miles, fusing the landscape instantly into a sheet of glass. A flat,circular sheet of glass. A polarized, limited zone of annihilation. Scantyards beyond its rim a person might escape unharmed, only beingdeafened and dazzled temporarily.

Hitherto no slow bird had been known to explode so as to overlap anearlier sheet of glass. Consequently many towns and villages clung close tothe borders of what had already been destroyed, and news of a fresh glassplain would cause farms and settlements to spring up there. Even so, thebulk of people still kept fatalistically to the old historic towns. Theyassumed that a slow bird wouldn't explode in their midst during their ownlifetimes. And if it did, what would they know of it? Unless the glasshappened merely to bisect a town—in which case, once the weeping andmourning was over, the remaining citizenry could relax and feel secure.

True, in the long term the whole country from coast to coast and fromnorth to south would be a solid sheet of glass. Or perhaps it would merelybe a checkerboard, of circles touching circles: a glass mosaic. With whatin between? Patches of desert dust, if the climate dried up due toreflections from the glass. Or floodwater, swampland. But that day wasstill far distant: a hundred years away, two hundred, three. So peopledidn't worry too much. They had been used to this all their lives long, andtheir parents before them. Perhaps one day the slow birds would stop

coming. And going. And exploding. Just as they had first started, once.Certainly the situation was no different, by all accounts, anywhere else inthe world. Only the seas were clear of slow birds. So maybe the humanrace would have to take to rafts one day. Though by then, with what wouldthey build them? Meanwhile, people got by; and most had long ago givenup asking why. For there was no answer.

The girl's sister helped her rise. No bones broken, it seemed. Only aninjury to dignity; and to her sail.

The other skaters had all coasted to a halt and were staring resentfullyat the bird in their midst. Its belly and sides were almost bare of graffiti;seeing this, a number of youths hastened on to the glass, clutchingpenknives, rusty nails and such. But an umpire waved them back angrily.

"Shoo! Be off with you!" His gaze seemed to alight on Jason, and for afatuous moment Jason imagined that it was himself to whom the umpirewas about to appeal; but the man called, "Master Tarnover!" instead, andMax Tarnover duck-waddled past then glided out over the glass, to confer.

Presently, the umpire cupped his hands. "We're delaying the start forhalf an hour," he bellowed. "Fair's fair: young lady ought to have a chanceto fix her sail, seeing as it wasn't her fault."

Jason noted a small crinkle of amusement on Tarnover's face; for noweither the other competitors would have to carry on prancing aroundtiring themselves with extra practice which none of them needed, or elsetroop off the glass for a recess and lose some psychological edge. In factalmost everyone opted for a break and some refreshments.

"Luck indeed!" snorted Mrs. Babbidge, as Max Tarnover clumped backtheir way.

Tarnover paused by Jason. "Frankly I'd say her sail's a wreck," heconfided. "But what can you do? The Buckby lot would have been bitchingon otherwise. 'Oh, she could have won. If she'd had ten minutes to fix it.'Bloody hunk of metal in the way." Tarnover ran a lordly eye over Jason'ssail "What price skill, then?"

Daniel Babbidge regarded Tarnover with a mixture of hero worship andhostile partisanship on his brother's behalf. Jason himself only noddedand said, "Fair enough." He wasn't certain whether Tarnover was actinggenerously—or with patronizing arrogance. Or did this word in his earmean that Tarnover actually saw Jason as a valid rival for the silverpunch-bowl this year round?

Obviously young Daniel did not regard Jason's response as adequate.He piped up: "So where do you think the birds go, Master Tarnover, whenthey aren't here?"

A good question: quite unanswerable, but Max Tarnover wouldprobably feel obliged to offer an answer if only to maintain his pose ofworldly wisdom. Jason warmed to his brother, while Mrs. Babbidge,catching on, cuffed the boy softly.

"Now don't you go wasting Master Tarnover's time. Happen he hasn'tgiven it a moment's thought, all his born days."

"Oh, but I have," Tarnover said.

"Well?" the boy insisted.

"Well . . . maybe they don't go anywhere at all."

Mrs. Babbidge chuckled, and Tarnover flushed.

"What I mean is, maybe they just stop being in one place then suddenlythey're in the next place."

"If only you could skate like that!" Jason laughed. "Bit slow, though . . .Everyone would still pass you by at the last moment."

"They must go somewhere," young Dan said doggedly. "Maybe it'ssomewhere we can't see. Another sort of place, with other people. Maybeit's them that builds the birds."

"Look, freckleface, the birds don't come from Russ, or 'Merica, oranywhere else. So where's this other place?"

"Maybe it's right here, only we can't see it."

"And maybe pigs have wings." Tarnover looked about to march towardsthe cider and perry stall; but Mrs. Babbidge interposed herself smartly.

"Oh, as to that, I'm sure our sow Betsey couldn't fly, wings or no wings.Just hanging in the air like that, and so heavy."

"Weighed a bird recently, have you?"

"They look heavy, Master Tarnover."

Tarnover couldn't quite push his way past Mrs. Babbidge, not with hissail impeding him. He contented himself with staring past her, andmuttering, "If we've nothing sensible to say about them, in my opinion it'sbetter to shut up."

"But it isn't better," protested Daniel. "They're blowing the world up. Bitby bit. As though they're at war with us."

Jason felt humorously inventive. "Maybe that's it. Maybe these otherpeople of Dan's are at war with us—only they forgot to mention it. Andwhen they've glassed us all, they'll move in for the holidays. And skatehappily for ever more."

"Damn long war, if that's so," growled Tarnover. "Been going on over acentury now."

"Maybe that's why the birds fly so slowly," said Daniel. "What if a yearto us is like an hour to those people? That's why the birds don't fall. Theydon't have time to."

Tarnover's expression was almost savage. "And what if the birds comeonly to punish us for our sins? What if they're simply a miraculousproof—"

"—that the Lord cares about us? And one day He'll forgive us? Ohgoodness," and Mrs. Babbidge beamed, "surely you aren't one of them? Abright lad like you. Me, I don't even put candles in the window or tie knotsin the bedsheets anymore to keep the birds away." She ruffled her youngerson's mop of red hair. "Every one dies sooner or later, Dan. You'll get usedto it, when you're properly grown up. When it's time to die, it's time todie."

Tarnover looked furiously put out; though young Daniel also seemeddistressed in a different way.

"And when you're thirsty, it's time for a drink!" Spying an opening, andhis opportunity, Tarnover sidled quickly around Mrs. Babbidge and strodeoff. She chuckled as she watched him go.

"That's put a kink in his sail!"

Forty-one other contestants, besides Jason and Tarnover, gatheredbetween the starting flags, though not the girl who had fallen. Despite allbest efforts she was out of the race, and sat morosely watching.

Then the Tuckerton umpire blew his whistle, and they were off.

The course was in the shape of a long bloomer loaf. First, it curvedgently along the edge of the glass for three quarters of a mile, then bentsharply around in a half circle on to the straight, returning towardsTuckerton. At the end of the straight, another sharp half circle brought itback to the starting—and finishing—line. Three circuits in all were to beskate-sailed before the victory whistle blew. Much more than this, and thelag between leaders and stragglers could lead to confusion.

By the first turn Jason was ahead of the rest of the field, and all hispractice since last year was paying off. His skates raced over the glass. Thebreeze thrust him convincingly. As he rounded the end of the loaf,swinging his sail to a new pitch, he noted Max Tarnover hanging back infourth place. Determined to increase his lead, Jason leaned so close to theflag on the entry to the straight that he almost tipped it. Compensating, hecame poorly on to the straight, losing a few yards. By the time Jason sweptover the finishing line for the first time, to cheers from Atherton villagers,Tarnover was in third position; though he was making no very strenuouseffort to overhaul, Jason realized that Tarnover was simply letting him actas pacemaker.

But a skate-sailing race wasn't the same as a foot race, where apacemaker was generally bound to drop back eventually. Jason pressed on.Yet by the second crossing of the line Tarnover was ten yards behind,moving without apparent effort as though he and his sail and the windand the glass were one. Noting Jason's glance, Tarnover grinned and puton a small burst of speed to push the front-runner to even greater efforts.And as he entered on the final circuit Jason also noted the progress of theslow bird, off to his left, now midway between the long curve and thestraight, heading in the general direction of Edgewood. Even the laggardsought to clear the final straight before the thing got in their way, hecalculated.

This brief distraction was a mistake. Tarnover was even closer behindhim now, his sail pitched at an angle which must have made his wristsache. Already he was drifting aside to overhaul Jason. And at this momentJason grasped how he could win: by letting Tarnover think that he waspushing Jason beyond his capacity—so that Tarnover would be fooled intooverexerting himself too soon.

"Can't catch me!" Jason called into the wind, guessing that Tarnoverwould misread this as braggadocio and assume that Jason wasn't reallythinking ahead. At the same time Jason slackened his own pace slightly,hoping that his rival would fail to notice, since this was at odds with hisown boast. Pretending to look panicked, he let Tarnover overtake—andsaw how Tarnover continued to trip his sail strenuously even though hewas actually moving a little slower than before. Without realizing it,Tarnover had his angle wrong; he was using unnecessary wrist action.

Tarnover was in the lead now. Immediately all psychological pressurelifted from Jason. With ease and grace he stayed a few yards behind, justwhere he could benefit from the 'eye' of air in Tarnover's wake. And thushe remained till half way down the final straight, feeling like a kestrel

hanging in the sky with a mere twitch of its wings before swooping.

He held back; held back. Then suddenly changing the cant of his sail hedid swoop—into the lead again.

It was a mistake. It had been a mistake all along. For as Jason sailedpast, Tarnover actually laughed. Jerking his brown and orange silk to aneasier, more efficient pitch, Tarnover began to pump his legs, skating likea demon. Already he was ahead again. By five yards. By ten. And enteringthe final curve.

As Jason tried to catch up in the brief time remaining, he knew how hehad been fooled; though the knowledge came too late. So cleverly hadTarnover fixed Jason's mind on the stance of the sails, by holding his ownin such a way—a way, too, which deliberately created that convenient eyeof air—that Jason had quite neglected the contribution of his legs andskates, taking this for granted, failing to monitor it from moment tomoment. It only took moments to recover and begin pumping his own legstoo, but those few moments were fatal. Jason crossed the finish line oneyard behind last year's victor; who was this year's victor too.

As he slid to a halt, bitter with chagrin, Jason was well aware that itwas up to him to be gracious in defeat rather than let Tarnover seize thatadvantage, too.

He called out, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Magnificent, Max!Splendid skating! You really caught me on the hop there."

Tarnover smiled for the benefit of all onlookers.

"What a noisy family you Babbidges are," he said softly; and skated offto be presented with the silver punch-bowl again.

Much later that afternoon, replete with roast pork and awash with OldCodger Ale, Jason was waving an empty beer mug about as he talked toBob Marchant in the midst of a noisy crowd. Bob, who had fallen sospectacularly the year before. Maybe that was why he had skateddiffidently today and been one of the laggards.

The sky was heavily overcast, and daylight too was failing. Soon thehomeward trek would have to start.

One of Jason's drinking and skating partners from Atherton, SamPartridge, thrust his way through.

"Jay! That brother of yours: he's out on the glass. He's scrambled up onthe back of the bird. He's riding it."

"What?"

Jason sobered rapidly, and followed Partridge with Bob Marchanttagging along behind.

Sure enough, a couple of hundred yards away in the gloaming Danielwas perched astride the slow bird. His red hair was unmistakable. By nowa lot of other people were beginning to take notice and point him out.There were some ragged cheers, and a few angry protests.

Jason clutched Partridge's arm. "Somebody must have helped him up.Who was it?"

"Haven't the foggiest. That boy needs a good walloping."

"Daniel Babbidge!" Mrs. Babbidge was calling nearby. She too hadseen. Cautiously she advanced on to the glass, wary of losing her balance.

Jason and company were soon at her side. "It's all right, Mum," heassured her. "I'll fetch the little . . . perisher."

Courteously Bob Marchant offered his arm and escorted Mrs. Babbidgeback on the rough ground again. Jason and Partridge stepped flat-foot outacross the vitrified surface accompanied by at least a dozen curiousspectators.

"Did anyone spot who helped him up?" Jason demanded of them. Noone admitted it.

When the group was a good twenty yards from the bird, everyone butJason halted. Pressing on alone, Jason pitched his voice so that only theboy would hear.

"Slide off," he ordered grimly. "I'll catch you. Right monkey you've madeof your mother and me."

"No," whispered Daniel. He clung tight, hands splayed like suckers,knees pressed to the flanks of the bird as though he was a jockey. "I'mgoing to see where it goes."

"Goes? Hell, I'm not going to waste time arguing. Get down!" Jasongripped an ankle and tugged, but this action only served to pull him upagainst the bird. Beside Dan's foot a heart with the entwined initials 'ZB'and 'EF' was carved. Turning away, Jason shouted, "Give me a hand, youlot! Come on someone, bunk me up!"

Nobody volunteered, not even Partridge.

"It won't bite you! There's no harm in touching it. Any kid knows that."Angrily he flat-footed back towards them. "Damn it all, Sam."

So now Partridge did shuffle forward, and a couple of other men too.But then they halted, gaping. Their expression puzzled Jasonmomentarily—till Sam Partridge gestured; till Jason swung round.

The air behind was empty.

The slow bird had departed suddenly. Taking its rider with it.

Half an hour later only the visitors from Atherton and their hostsremained on Tuckerton green. The Buckby, Edgewood and Hoppertoncontingents had set off for home. Uncle John was still consoling asnivelling Mrs. Babbidge. Most faces in the surrounding crowd lookedsympathetic, though there was a certain air of resentment, too, amongsome Tuckerton folk that a boy's prank had cast this black shadow overtheir Mayday festival.

Jason glared wildly around the onlookers. "Did nobody see who helpedmy brother up?" he cried. "Couldn't very well have got up himself, couldhe? Where's Max Tarnover? Where is he?"

"You aren't accusing Master Tarnover, by any chance?" growled a beefyfarmer with a large wart on his cheek. "Sour grapes, Master Babbidge!Sour grapes is what that sounds like, and we don't like the taste of thosehere."

"Where is he, dammit?"

Uncle John laid a hand on his nephew's arm. "Jason, lad. Hush. Thisisn't helping your Mum."

But then the crowd parted, and Tarnover sauntered through, stillholding the silver punch-bowl he had won.

"Well, Master Babbidge?" he enquired. "I hear you want a word withme."

"Did you see who helped my brother onto that bird? Well, did you?"

"I didn't see," replied Tarnover coolly.

It had been the wrong question, as Jason at once realized. For ifTarnover had done the deed himself, how could he possibly have watchedhimself do it?

"Then did you—"

"Hey up," objected the same farmer. "You've asked him, and you've hadhis answer."

"And I imagine your brother has had his answer too," said Tarnover. "Ihope he's well satisfied with it. Naturally I offer my heartfelt sympathies toMrs. Babbidge. If indeed the boy has come to any harm. Can't be sure ofthat, though, can we?"

"Course we can't!"

Jason tensed, and Uncle John tightened his grip on him. “No, lad.There's no use."

It was a sad and quiet long walk homeward that evening for the threeremaining Babbidges, though a fair few Atherton folk behind sang blithelyand tipsily, nonetheless. Occasionally Jason looked around for SamPartridge, but Sam Partridge seemed to be successfully avoiding them.

The next day, May the second, Mrs. Babbidge rallied and declared it tobe a "sorting out" day; which meant a day for handling all Daniel's clothesand storybooks and old toys lovingly before setting them to one side out ofsight. Jason himself she packed off to his job at the sawmill, with a flea inhis ear for hanging around her like a whipped hound.

And as Jason worked at trimming planks that day the same shamed,angry frustrated thoughts skated round and round a single circuit in hishead:

"In my book he's a murderer . . . You don't give a baby a knife to playwith. He was cool as a cucumber afterwards. Not shocked, no. Smug . . ."

Yet what could be done about it? The bird might have hung around forhours more. Except that it hadn't. . .

Set out on a quest to find Daniel? But how? And where? Birds dodgedaround. Here, there and everywhere. No rhyme or reason to it. So what auseless quest that would be!

A quest to prove that Dan was alive. And if he were alive, then Tarnoverhadn't killed him.

"In my book he's a murderer . . ." Jason's thoughts churned onimpotently. It was like skating with both feet tied together.

Three days later a slow bird was sighted out Edgeway way. JimMitchum, the Edgewood thatcher, actually sought Jason out at thesawmill to bring him the news. He'd been coming over to do a job,anyway.

No doubt his visit was an act of kindness, but it filled Jason with guilt

quite as much as it boosted his morale. For now he was compelled to goand see for himself, when obviously there was nothing whatever todiscover. Downing tools, he hurried home to collect his skates and sail,and sped over the glass to Edgewood.

The bird was still there; but it was a different bird. There was no carvedheart with the love-tangled initials 'ZB' and 'EF.

And four days after that, mention came from Buckby of a bird spotted afew miles west of the village on the main road to Harborough. This timeJason borrowed a horse and rode. But the mention had come late; the birdhad flown on a day earlier. Still, he felt obliged to search the area of thesighting for a fallen body or some other sign.

And the week after that a bird vanished only a mile from Athertonitself; this one vanished even as Jason arrived on the scene . . .

Then one night Jason went down to the Wheatsheaf. It was severalweeks, in fact, since he had last been in the alehouse; now he meant to getdrunk, at the long bar under the horse brasses.

Sam Partridge, Ned Darrow and Frank Yardley were there boozing; andan hour or so later Ned Darrow was offering beery advice.

"Look, Jay, where's the use in you dashing off every time someone spotsa ruddy bird? Keep that up and you'll make a ruddy fool of yourself. Andwhat if a bird pops up in Tuckerton? Bound to happen sooner or later.Going to rush off there too, are you, with your tongue hanging out?"

"All this time you're taking off work," said Frank Yardley. "You'll end uplosing the job. Get on living is my advice."

"Don't know about that," said Sam Partridge unexpectedly. "Does seemto me as man ought to get his own back. Supposing Tarnover did do thedirty on the Babbidges—"

"What's there to suppose about it?" Jason broke in angrily.

"Easy on, Jay. I was going to say as Babbidges are Atherton people. Sohe did the dirty on us all, right?"

"Thanks to some people being a bit slow in their help."

Sam flushed. "Now don't you start attacking everyone right and left. Noone's perfect. Just remember who your real friends are, that's all."

"Oh, I'll remember, never fear."

Frank inclined an empty glass from side to side. "Right. Whose round isit?"

One thing led to another, and Jason had a thick head the next morning.

In the evening Ned banged on the Babbidge door.

"Bird on the glass, Sam says to tell you," he announced. "How aboutgoing for a spin to see it?"

"I seem to recall last night you said I was wasting my time."

"Ay, running around all over the country. But this is just for a spin. Niceevening, like. Mind, if you don't want to bother . . . Then we can all have afew jars in the Wheatsheaf afterwards."

The lads must really have missed him over the past few weeks. QuicklyJason collected his skates and sail.

"But what about your supper?" asked his mother. "Sheep's head broth."

"Oh, it'll keep, won't it? I might as well have a pasty or two in theWheatsheaf."

"Happen it's better you get out and enjoy yourself," she said. "I'm quitecontent. I've got things to mend."

Twenty minutes later Jason, Sam, and Ned were skimming over theglass two miles out. The sky was crimson with banks of stratus, and a riverof gold ran clear along the horizon: foul weather tomorrow, but a glorythis evening. The glassy expanse flowed with red and gold reflections: alake of blood, fire, and molten metal. They did not at first spot the othersolitary sail-skater, nor he them, till they were quite close to the slow bird.

Sam noticed first. "Who's that, then?"

The other sail was brown and orange. Jason recognized it easily. "It'sTarnover!"

"Now's your chance to find out, then," said Ned.

"Do you mean that?"

Ned grinned. "Why not? Could be fun. Let's take him."

Pumping their legs, the three sail-skaters sped apart to outflankTarnover—who spied them and began to turn. All too sharply, though. Orelse he may have run into a slick of water on the glass. To Jason's joy MaxTarnover, champion of the five villages, skidded.

They caught him. This done, it didn't take the strength of an ox to stop

a skater from going anywhere else, however much he kicked and struggled.But Jason hit Tarnover on the jaw, knocking him senseless.

"What the hell you do that for?" asked Sam, easing Tarnover's fall onthe glass.

"How else do we get him up on the bird?"

Sam stared at Jason, then nodded slowly.

It hardly proved the easiest operation to hoist a limp and heavy body onto a slowly moving object while standing on a slippery surface; but afterremoving their skates they succeeded. Before too long Tarnover laysprawled atop, legs dangling. Quickly with his pocket knife Jason cut thehemp cord from Tarnover's sail and bound his ankles together, runningthe tether tightly underneath the bird.

Presently Tarnover awoke, and struggled groggily erect. He groaned,rocked sideways, recovered his balance.

"Babbidge . . . Partridge, Ned Darrow. . . ? What the hell are you up to?"

Jason planted hands on hips. "Oh, we're just playing a little prank, sameas you did on my brother Dan. Who's missing now; maybe forever, thanksto you."

"I never—"

"Admit it, then we might cut you down."

"And happen we mightn't," said Ned. "Not till the Wheatsheaf closes.But look on the bright side: happen we might."

Tarnover's legs twitched as he tested the bonds. He winced. "I honestlymeant your brother no harm."

Sam smirked. "Nor do we mean you any. Ain't our fault if a bird decidesto fly off. Anyway, only been here an hour or so. Could easily be here allnight. Right, lads?"

"Right," said Ned. "And I'm thirsty. Race you? Last ones buys?"

"He's admitted he did it," said Jason. "You heard him."

"Look, I'm honestly very sorry if—"

"Shut up," said Sam. "You can stew for a while, seeing as how you'vemade the Babbidges stew. You can think about how sorry you really are."Partridge hoisted his sail.

It was not exactly how Jason had envisioned his revenge. This seemedlike an anticlimax. Yet, to Tarnover no doubt it was serious enough. Thechampion was sweating slightly . . . Jason hoisted his sail, too. Presentlythe men skated away ... to halt by unspoken agreement a quarter of a mileaway. They stared back at Tarnover's little silhouette upon his metal steed.

"Now if it was me," observed Sam, "I'd shuffle myself along till I fell offthe front. . . Rub you a bit raw, but that's how to do it."

"No need to come back, really," said Ned. "Hey, what's he trying?"

The silhouette had ducked. Perhaps Tarnover had panicked and wasn'tthinking clearly, but it looked as if he was trying to lean over far enough tounfasten the knot beneath, or free one of his ankles. Suddenly the distantfigure inverted itself. It swung right round the bird, and Tarnover's headand chest were hanging upside down, his arms flapping. Or perhapsTarnover had hoped the cord would snap under his full weight; but snap itdid not. And once he was stuck in that position there was no way he couldrecover himself upright again, or do anything about inching along to thefront of the bird.

Ned whistled. "He's messed himself up now, and no mistake. He's ruddycrucified himself."

Jason hesitated before saying it: "Maybe we ought to go back? I mean, aman can die hanging upside-down too long . . . Can't he?" Suddenly thewhole episode seemed unclean, unsatisfactory.

"Go back?" Sam Partridge fairly snarled at him. "You were the bigmouth last night. And whose idea was it to tie him to the bird? Youwanted him taught a lesson, and he's being taught one. We're only tryingto oblige you, Jay."

"Yes, I appreciate that."

"You made enough fuss about it. He isn't going to wilt like a bunch offlowers in the time it takes us to swallow a couple of pints."

And so they skated on, back to the Wheatsheaf in Atherton.

At ten thirty, somewhat the worse for wear, the three men spilled out ofthe alehouse into Sheaf Street. A quarter moon was dodging from rift torift in the cloudy sky, shedding little light.

"I'm for bed," said Sam. "Let the sod wriggle his way off."

"And who cares if he don't?" said Ned. "That way, nobody'll know. Who

wants an enemy for life? Do you, Jay? This way you can get on with things.Happen Tarnover'll bring your brother back from wherever it is."

Shouldering his sail and swinging his skates, Ned wandered off upSheaf Street.

"But," said Jason. He felt as though he had blundered into a midden.There was a reek of sordidness about what had taken place. The memoryof Tarnover hanging upside-down had tarnished him.

"But what?" said Sam.

Jason made a show of yawning. "Nothing. See you." And he set offhomeward.

But as soon as he was out of sight of Sam he slipped down throughButcher's Row in the direction of the glass alone. It was dark out therewith no stars and only an occasional hint of moonlight, yet the breeze wassteady and there was nothing to trip over on the glass. The bird wouldn'thave moved more than a hundred yards. Jason made good speed.

The slow bird was still there. But Tarnover wasn't with it; its belly wasbarren of any hanged man.

As Jason skated to a halt, to look closer, figures arose in the darknessfrom where they had been lying flat upon the glass, covered by their sails.Six figures. Eight. Nine. All had lurked within two or three hundred yardsof the bird, though not too close—nor any in the direction of Atherton.They had left a wide corridor open, which now they closed.

As the Tuckerton men moved in on him, Jason stood still, knowing thathe had no chance.

Max Tarnover skated up, accompanied by that same beefy farmer withthe wart.

"I did come back for you," began Jason.

The farmer spoke, but not to Jason. "Did he now? That's big of him.Could have saved his time, what with Tim Earnshaw happeningalong—when Master Tarnover was gone a long time. So what's to be donewith him, eh?"

"Tit for tat, I'd say," said another voice.

"Let him go and look for his kid brother," offered a third. "Instead ofsending other folk on his errands. What a nerve."

Tarnover himself said nothing; he just stood in the night silently.

So, presently, Jason was raised on to the back of the bird and his feetwere tied tightly under it. But his wrists were bound together too, and forgood measure the cord was linked through his belt.

Within a few minutes all the skaters had sped away towards Tuckerton.

Jason sat. Remembering Sam's words he tried to inch forward, but withboth hands fastened to his waist this proved impossible; he couldn't gainpurchase. Besides, he was scared of losing his balance as Tarnover had.

He sat and thought of his mother. Maybe she would grow alarmed whenhe didn't come home. Maybe she would go out and rouse Uncle John . . .And maybe she had gone to bed already.

But maybe she would wake in the night and glance into his room andsend help. With fierce concentration he tried to project thoughts andimages of himself at her, two miles away.

An hour wore on, then two; or so he supposed from the moving of themoon-crescent. He wished he could slump forward and sleep. That mightbe best; then he wouldn't know anything. He still felt drunk enough to passout, even with his face pressed against metal. But he might easily slide toone side or the other in his sleep.

How could his mother survive a double loss? It seemed as though acurse had descended on the Babbidge family. But of course that curse hada human name; and the name was Max Tarnover. So for a while Jasondamned him and imagined retribution by all the villagers of Atherton. Abloody feud. Cottages burnt. Perhaps a rape. Deaths even. No Maydayfestival ever again.

But would Sam and Ned speak up? And would Atherton folk besufficiently incensed, sufficiently willing to destroy the harmony of the fivevillages in a world where other things were so unsure? Particularly assome less than sympathetic soul might say that Jason, Sam, and Ned hadstarted it all.

Jason was so involved in imagining a future feud between Atherton andTuckerton that he almost forgot he was astride a slow bird. There was nosense of motion, no feeling of going anywhere. When he recollected wherehe was, it actually came as a shock.

He was riding a bird.

But for how long?

It had been around, what, six hours now? A bird could stay for a wholeday. In which case he had another eighteen hours left to be rescued in. Orif it only stayed for half a day, that would take him through to morning.

Just.

He found himself wondering what was underneath the metal skin of thebird. Something which could turn five miles of landscape into a sheet ofglass, certainly. But other things too. Things that let it ignore gravity.Things that let it dodge in and out of existence. A brain of some kind,even?

"Can you hear me, bird?" he asked it. Maybe no one had ever spoken toa slow bird before.

The slow bird did not answer.

Maybe it couldn't, but maybe it could hear him, even so. Maybe it couldobey orders.

"Don't disappear with me on your back," he told it. "Stay here. Keep onflying just like this."

But since it was doing just that already, he had no idea whether it wasobeying him or not.

"Land, bird. Settle down onto the glass. Lie still."

It did not. He felt stupid. He knew nothing at all about the bird. Nobodydid. Yet somewhere, someone knew. Unless the slow birds did indeedcome from God, as miracles, to punish. To make men God-fearing. Butwhy should a God want to be feared? Unless God was insane, in whichcase the birds might well come from Him.

They were something irrational, something from elsewhere, somethingwhich couldn't be understood by their victims any more than an antcolony understood the gardener's boot, exposing the white eggs to the sunand the sparrows.

Maybe something had entered the seas from elsewhere the previouscentury, something that didn't like land dwellers. Any of them. People orsheep, birds or worms or plants ... It didn't seem likely. Salt water wouldrust steel, but for the first time in his life Jason thought about it intently.

"Bird, what are you? Why are you here?" Why, he thought, is anythinghere? Why is there a world and sky and stars? Why shouldn't there simplybe nothing for ever and ever?

Perhaps that was the nature of death: nothing for ever and ever. Andone's life was like a slow bird. Appearing then vanishing, with nothingbefore and nothing after.

An immeasurable period of time later, dawn began to streak the skybehind him, washing it from black to grey. The greyness advanced slowly

overhead as thick clouds filtered the light of the rising but hidden sun.Soon there was enough illumination to see clear all around. It must be fiveo'clock. Or six. But the grey glass remained blankly empty.

Who am I? wondered Jason, calm and still. Why am I conscious of aworld? Why do people have minds, and think thoughts? For the first timein his life he felt that he was really thinking—and thinking had nooutcome. It led nowhere.

He was, he realized, preparing himself to die. Just as all the land woulddie, piece by piece, fused into glass. Then no one would think thoughts anymore, so that it wouldn't matter if a certain Jason Babbidge had ceasedthinking at half past six one morning late in May. After all, the same thinghappened every night when you went to sleep, didn't it? You stoppedthinking. Perhaps everything would be purer and cleaner afterwards. Lessuntidy, less fretful: a pure ball of glass. In fact, not fretful at all, even if allthe stars in the sky crashed into each other, even if the earth wasswallowed by the sun. Silence, forever: once there was no one about tohear.

Maybe this was the message of the slow birds. Yet people only carvedtheir initials upon them. And hearts. And the names of places which hadbeen vitrified in a flash; or else which were going to be.

I'm becoming a philosopher, thought Jason in wonder.

He must have shifted into some hyperconscious state of mind, full oflucid clarity, though without immediate awareness of his surroundings,for he was not fully aware that help had arrived until the cord binding hisankles was cut and his right foot thrust up abruptly, toppling him off theother side of the bird into waiting arms.

Sam Patridge, Ned Darrow, Frank Yardley, and Uncle John, and BrianSefton from the sawmill—who ducked under the bird brandishing a knife,and cut the other cord to free his wrists.

They retreated quickly from the bird, pulling Jason with them. Heresisted feebly. He stretched an arm towards the bird.

"It's all right, lad," Uncle John soothed him.

"No, I want to go," he protested.

"Eh?"

At that moment the slow bird, having hung around long enough,vanished; and Jason stared at where it had been, speechless.

In the end his friends and uncle had to lead him away from that

featureless spot on the glass, as though he was an idiot, someone touchedby imbecility.

But Jason did not long remain speechless. Presently he began to teach.Or preach. One or the other. And people listened; at first in Atherton, thenin other places too.

He had learned wisdom from the slow bird, people said of him. He hadcommuned with the bird during the night's vigil on the glass.

His doctrine of nothingness and silence spread, taking root in fertilesoil, where there was soil remaining rather than glass—which was in mostplaces, still. A paradox, perhaps: how eloquently he spoke—about beingsilent! But in so doing he seemed to make the silence of the glass lakessing; and to this people listened with a new ear.

Jason traveled throughout the whole island. And this was anotherparadox, for what he taught was a kind of passivity, a blissful waiting for adeath that was more than merely personal, a death which was also thedeath of the sun and stars and of all existence, a cosmic death whichtransfigured individual mortality. And sometimes he even sat on the backof a bird that happened by, to speak to a crowd—as though chancing fateor daring, begging the bird to take him away. But he never sat for morethan an hour, then he would scramble down, trembling but quietlyradiant. So besides being known as "The Silent Prophet," he was alsoknown as "The Man who rides the Slow Birds." On balance, it could havebeen said that he worked great psychological good for the communitiesthat survived; and his words even spread overseas. His mother died proudof him—so he thought—though there was always an element of wistfulreserve in her attitude . . .

Many years later, when Jason Babbidge was approaching sixty, and stillno bird had ever borne him away, he settled back in Atherton in his oldhome—to which pilgrims of silence would come, bringing prosperity to thevillage and particularly to the Wheatsheaf; managed now by the daughterof the previous landlord.

And every Mayday the skate-sailing festival was still held, but nowalways on the glass at Atherton. No longer was it a race and acompetition; since in the end the race of life could not be won. Instead ithad become a pageant, a glass ballet, a re-enactment of the events of manyyears ago—a passion play performed by the four remaining villages.Tuckerton and all its folk had been glassed ten years before by a bird

which destroyed itself so that the circle of annihilation exactly touchedthat edge of the glass where Tuckerton had stood till then.

One morning, the day before the festival, a knock sounded on Jason'sdoor. His housekeeper, Martha Prestidge, was out shopping in the villageso Jason answered.

A boy stood there. With red hair, and freckles.

For a moment Jason did not recognize the boy. But then he saw that itwas Daniel. Daniel, unchanged. Or maybe grown up a little. Maybe a yearolder.

"Dan . . . ?"

The boy surveyed Jason bemusedly: his balding crown, his sagginggirth, his now spindly legs, and the heavy stick with a stylized bird's headon which he leaned, gripping it with a liver-spotted hand.

"Jay," he said after a moment, "I've come back."

"Back? But . . . ."

"I know what the birds are now! They are weapons. Missiles. Tens andhundreds of thousands of them. There's a war going on. But it's like agame as well: a board game run by machines. Machines that think. It'sonly been going on for a few days in their time. The missiles shunt to andfro through time to get to their destination. But they can't shunt in thetime of that world, because of cause and effect. So here's where they dotheir shunting. In our world. The other possibility-world."

"This is nonsense. I won't listen."

"But you must, Jay! It can be stopped for us before it's too late. I knowhow. Both sides can interfere with each other's missiles and explode themout of sight—that's here—if they can find them fast enough. But the warover there's completely out of control. There's a winning pattern to it, butthis only matters to the machines any longer, and they're buried awayunderground. They build the birds at a huge rate with material from theEarth's crust, and launch them into other-time automatically."

"Stop it, Dan."

"I fell off the bird over there—but I fell into a lake, so I wasn't killed, onlyhurt. There are still some pockets of land left, around the Bases. Theypatched me up, the people there. They're finished, in another few hours oftheir time—though it's dozens of years to us. I brought them great hope,because it meant that all life isn't finished. Just theirs. Life can go on.What we have to do is build a machine that will stop their machines

finding the slow birds over here. By making interference in the air. Thereare waves. Like waves of light, but you can't see them."

"You're raving."

"Then the birds will still shunt here. But harmlessly. Without glassingus. And in a hundred years time, or a few hundred, they'll even stopcoming at all, because the winning pattern will be all worked out by then.One of the war machines will give up, because it lost the game. Oh, I knowit ought to be able to give up right now! But there's an element of theirrational programmed into the machines' brains too, so they don't giveup too soon. When they do, everyone will be long dead there on land—andsome surviving people think the war machines will start glassing the oceanfloor as a final strategy before they're through. But we can build anair-wave-maker. They've locked the knowledge in my brain. It'll take us afew years to mine the right metals and tool up and provide a power source. . ."

Young Daniel ran out of breath briefly. He gasped. "They had aprototype slow bird. They sat me on it and sent me into other-time again.They managed to guide it. It emerged just ten miles from here. So Iwalked home."

"Prototype? Air-waves? Power source? What are these?"

"I can tell you."

"Those are just words. Fanciful babble. Oh, for this babble of the worldto still itself!"

"Just give me time, and I'll—"

"Time? You desire time? The mad ticking of men's minds instead of thegreat pure void of eternal silence? You reject acceptance? You want us toswarm forever aimlessly, deafening ourselves with our noisy chatter?"

"Look ... I suppose you've had a long, tough life, Jay. Maybe I shouldn'thave come here first."

"Oh, but you should indeed, my impetuous fool of a brother. And I donot believe my life has been ill-spent."

Daniel tapped his forehead. "It's all in here. But I'd better get it down onpaper. Make copies and spread it around—just in case Atherton getsglassed. Then somebody else will know how to build the transmitter. Andlife can go on. Over there they think maybe the human race is the only lifein the whole universe. So we have a duty to go on existing. Only, the othershave destroyed themselves arguing about which way to exist. But we'vestill got time enough. We can build ships to sail through space to the stars.

I know a bit about that too. I tell you, my visit brought them real joy intheir last hours, to know this was all still possible after all."

"Oh, Dan." And Jason groaned. Patriarch-like, he raised his staff andbrought it crashing down on Daniel's skull.

He had imagined that he mightn't really notice the blood amidstDaniel's bright red hair. But he did.

The boy's body slumped in the doorway. With an effort Jason dragged itinside, then with an even greater effort up the oak stairs to the attic whereMartha Prestidge hardly ever went. The corpse might begin to smell aftera while, but it could be wrapped up in old blankets and such.

However, the return of his housekeeper down below distracted Jason.Leaving the body on the floor he hastened out, turning the key in the lockand pocketing it.

It had become the custom to invite selected guests back to the Babbidgehouse following the Mayday festivities, so Martha Prestidge would be busyall the rest of the day cleaning and cooking and setting the house to rights.As was the way of the housekeepers, she hinted that Jason would getunder her feet, so off he walked down to the glass and out onto its perfectflatness to stand and meditate. Villagers and visitors spying the lone figureout there nodded gladly. Their prophet was at peace, presiding over theirlives. And over their deaths.

The skate-sailing masque, the passion play, was enacted as brightly andgracefully as ever the next day.

It was May the third before Jason could bring himself to go up to theattic again, carrying sacking and cord. He unlocked the door.

But apart from a dark stain of dried blood the floorboards were bare.There was only the usual jumble stacked around the walls. The room wasempty of any corpse. And the window was open.

So he hadn't killed Daniel after all. The boy had recovered from theblow. Wild emotions stirred in Jason, disturbing his usual composure. Hestared out of the window as though he might discover the boy lying belowon the cobbles. But of Daniel there was no sign. He searched aroundAtherton like a haunted man, asking no questions but looking everywherepiercingly. Finding no clue, he ordered a horse and cart to take him toEdgewood. From there he traveled all around the glass, through Buckbyand Hopperton; and now he asked wherever he went,

"Have you seen a boy with red hair?" The villagers told each other thatJason Babbidge had had another vision.

As well he might have, for within the year from far away news began tospread of a new teacher, with a new message. This new teacher was only ayouth, but he had also ridden a slow bird—much farther than the SilentProphet had ever ridden one.

However, it seemed that this young teacher was somewhat flawed, sincehe couldn't remember all the details of his message, of what he had beentold to say. Sometimes he would beat his head with his fists in frustration,till it seemed that blood would flow. Yet perversely this touch of theatreappealed to some restless, troublesome streak in his audiences. Theybelieved him because they saw his anguish, and it mirrored their ownsuppressed anxieties.

Jason Babbidge spoke zealously to oppose the rebellious new ideas,exhausting himself. All the philosophical beauty he had brought into thedying world seemed to hang in the balance; and reluctantly he called for a"crusade" against the new teacher, to defend his own dream ofSubmission.

Two years later, he might well have wished to call his words back, fortheir consequence was that people were tramping across the countrysidein between the zones of annihilation armed with pitchforks and billhooks,cleavers and sickles. Villages were burnt; many hundreds were massacred;and there were rapes—all of which seemed to recall an earlier nightmareof Jason's from before the time of his revelation.

In the third year of this seemingly endless skirmish between thePacificists and the Survivalists Jason died, feeling bitter beneath his cloakof serenity; and by way of burial his body was roped to a slow bird. Loyalmourners accompanied the bird in silent procession until it vanishedhours later. A short while after that, quite suddenly at the Battle of AshtonGlass, it was all over, with victory for the Survivalists led by their youngred-haired champion, who it was noted bore a striking resemblance to oldJason Babbidge, so that it almost seemed as though two basic principlesof existence had been at contest in the world: two aspects of the selfsamebeing, two faces of one man.

Fifty years after that, by which time a full third of the land was glassand the climate was worsening, the Survival College in Ashton at lastinvented the promised machine; and from then on slow birds continued to

appear and fly and disappear as before, but now none of them exploded.

And a hundred years after that all the slow birds vanished from theEarth. Somewhere, a war was over, logically and finally.

But by then, from an Earth four-fifths of whose land surface was desertor swamp—in between necklaces of barren shining glass—the first starshipwould arise into orbit.

It would be called Slow Bird. For it would fly to the stars, slowly. Slowlyin human terms; two generations it would take. But that wascomparatively fast.

A second starship would follow it; called Daniel.

Though after that massive and exhausting effort, there would be nomore starships. The remaining human race would settle down to cultivatewhat remained of their garden in amongst the dunes and floods and acresof glass. Whether either starship would find a new home as habitable evenas the partly glassed Earth, would be merely an article of faith.

On his deathbed, eighty years of age, in Ashton College lay Daniel whohad never admitted to a family name.

The room was almost indecently overcrowded, though well if warmlyventilated by a wind whipping over Ashton Glass, and bright-lit by thesilvery blaze reflecting from that vitrified expanse.

The dying old man on the bed beneath a single silken sheet was like abird himself now: shrivelled with thin bones, a beak of a nose, beady eyes,and a rooster's comb of red hair on his head.

He raised a frail hand as if to summon those closest even closer.Actually it was to touch the old wound in his skull which had begun toache fiercely of late as though it was about to burst open or cave in,unlocking the door of memory—notwithstanding that no one now neededthe key hidden there, since his Collegians had discovered it independently,given the knowledge that it existed.

Faces leaned over him: confident, dedicated faces.

"They've stopped exploding, then?" he asked, forgetfully.

"Yes, yes, years ago!" they assured him.

"And the stars—?"

"We'll build the ships. We'll discover how."

His hand sank back on to the sheet. "Call one of them—"

"Yes?"

"Daniel. Will you?"

They promised him this.

"That way . . . my spirit..."

"Yes?"

". . . will fly . . ."

"Yes?"

". . . into the silence of space."

This slightly puzzled the witnesses of his death; for they could not knowthat Daniel's last thought was that, when the day of the launching came,he and his brother might at last be reconciled.